make decisions you think are your own
by taco's bell
Summary: On your birthday, she gives you a diary.


-On your birthday, she gives you a diary.-

Close your eyes, see how they run.

* * *

Sugar, spice, and everything nice; that's what little girls are made of. Ashy skin, brittle bone, and spilled milk make monsters, and there's one staring at you. You notice her; make it obvious you do, tilting your chin, meeting her eyes. Brown eyes blink, look away.

You smile. The other children edge away, lifting their trays, snuffing their worn out shoes along the wooden floorboards. Pathetic, you think, lift the disgusting soup to your mouth. One day, you will make it out of here. One day, one day. It chants in your head, hope and dreams, but you do not lift expectations. You will be satisfied if they leave instead.

The new girl shuffles to you hesitantly, stands beside your seat. You slant a look. She has dirty ugly orange hair, freckles dot her face, and brown eyes observe you. You do not remember her name.

"What?" you ask, softly now, you do not want to scare her away (you do, but you don't want her tattling, maybe if you sew her lips shut, then she'd _shut up, even when she's not talking)_.

"You're Thomas, right?" And you almost start at her voice. It is strong, like a steady flowing stream, eroding overturned stones, and you did not expect that. You set your plastic spoon down, turn to her.

"And you're Virginia," you grin (her name is a stab in your mind when you look in her eyes), all sharp smiles and malevolent charm. She frowns at you, and you falter.

"Ginerva, actually," she says, and you force back a scowl. How annoying. You do not like being wrong Being wrong suggested flaws, suggested you are not perfect, superior, and you _know_ that can't be true, you are special, always special- _different_.

"Is there something you'd like to say, Ginerva?" You say coolly, eyes half-hooded, staring. You wait for her to get flustered, nervous, want to _run away, girl, go away. _Instead, she blinks.

"I just wanted to say hello," she answers. You decide you do not like her.

* * *

She is frustrating, and you do not like a puzzle, an enigma. She smiles, says A, does B. Grins at you, and says, "You're going to die one day, Thomas." (and really, don't they all? Except, you don't want to, can't, won'twon'twon't)

"You say that like it is a surprise," you drawl, and watch as she draws back. "You will too, girl, or did you think you are better than me?"

She laughs, a throaty hysterical laugh that does not suit a lady-girl, does not suit a human, it echoes and falls back on the walls, loud. There is a reason the children avoid her. They avoid you because they know better, you have taught them better. But, there's been something off with her from the start.

"Poor, poor Tom," she simpers, and you want her to _hurt,_ to stop laughing at you, make her cry and die and just please, go away.

But she doesn't, and no matter how much you wish it, she stays.

* * *

"Tommy," she says now, and the affection curling around his nickname is like poison. "Tommy, what are you doing?"

"Be quiet," you retort, fingers tightening around your pencil. You have work to do, and even if you find it tedious, useless (what use is _geography_ when you plan to play _ruler_-murderer? Everything you touch will be yours, there is no boundary) But, you need the food, and what little allowance the orphanage provides. Obviously, she doesn't. She is happy with the crumpled sheet near her feet, eyes intent on his dingy walls, with its useless nothingness.

"Do you plan on eating this week?" you ask her. She simply smiles.

"I used to starve myself to get attention, y'know," she says, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. She is too young. "It's true," she continues when you offer no input, "I was _convinced_ it would help. Alas, my poor stomach did nothing but suffer."

(_suffer-_you like the word on her tongue, she should hurt, and you wish you could have seen, except she is a liar, a thieving liar, and you mustn't believe the witch)

"I don't see how that ties in with your assignment," you sneer, keeping your back to her. She does not deserve to see your face, the ugly girl with bright orange hair, and freckles.

"The point is," she says, "it hurts my head, and I'm not hungry." _Not hungry._ You almost laugh.

* * *

"Morgana," the tutor admonishes, "why didn't you do your work?"

You think it's funny that she goes (officially) by a simple name, but wishes for a name like Ginerva.

"I didn't understand, ma'am," she replies, eyes wide and pale skin becoming an unhealthy shade under the lights. The tutor clears her throat, looks away.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid I'm going to have deducted your allowance for the week, and take away food rights. Is that understood?"

The girl blinks, breathes. The tutor does not wait for an answer.

* * *

On Valentine's day there are more couples visiting the orphanage, feeling sentimental, think they can take a child and raise them (bitterness couples your growth, and as your fingers become narrower, your cheekbones gaunter, you do not think about them at all), and all the children try to look their best, scamper about the living room.

You stay in your room, and they are perfectly fine with that. Except, the girl stays with you too.

"Tom, do you hate me?" A stiff proposal, you think, as she makes intricate holes in a dirty cloth she found under your bed (you stole that, too).

"If I gave you much thought." (_liar)_

"Don't worry," she says, and all that's left of the cloth under the bed is the stitch in her finger. "You'll hate me soon enough." (you already do).

* * *

On your birthday, she gives you a diary. It is blank, pages caressing your dry skin, and you examine the smooth black cover. It is nothing short of ugly, but it is still expensive, at least two months' allowance. You look up at her, stare.

"You don't have to write in it," she says, softly, and it is the first time you have heard her voice in such a way, as if it might break. She is staring at the book.

"Why would I?" you sneer, because you are just a little flattered, and it's coming from her, and you really shouldn't.

"It helps," she says, and nothing else.

You don't write in it, but put your name on all the same. It is useless, thoughtless, but it is still yours, and that is enough to show its value.

To you, she doesn't have a birthday (and what if she did? It doesn't matter, wouldn't matter, because _you don't care)._

* * *

Dumbledore comes and goes, and it just makes so much more sense. You are special, were always special (you knew it), not different. Special. He makes things hurt, burn, and even if you don't like him, detest him even, he is a wizard, and you can talk to snakes.

You breathe.

"Tom," comes a voice.

"Ginerva," you acknowledge, smirk.

"You're in a good mood," she says, eying you with unease. You laugh, a maniacal little laugh that makes her blink.

"Did you know? I can talk to snakes."

She looks away, and you are reminded of why you hate her.

Later, when she hears how you are leaving for a short amount of time, she stares. (_jealous, she's jealous, and you are the envy of the world)_.

* * *

You have a dream. You dream of pale hands on your throat, and bright orange. Brown eyes glare down at you, mouth set in a determined frown. You cough and wake up.

There are bruises on your neck, and if Ginerva notices, she doesn't say. When you are stronger, you'll burn her throat. You think the air will be pretty stained with the smell of her blood.

* * *

Slytherin is not as powerful as you'd like. They are petty, childish, and you do not like the way they look at you (like the children, you'll show them, again). They resent you, yes, but what can they do but smile at you?

_Nothing._

* * *

You hate coming back for summer, hate coming back to knowing eyes, and hollow smiles.

"Tom," she says, "how was Hogwarts?"

"I don't remember discussing that with you," you say shortly, narrow your eyes.

"Must be your memory, are they overworking you?" she smiles. "You know, if you get too stressed, you grow gray hairs, and then to the grave with you!"

"Be quiet," you say (you know you never spoke to her of Hogwarts, she is too risky, too open, you need to get rid of her, but she is not a rabbit, and it is not as easy).

She runs a hand through your curls, smiles. You smack her hand away.

And later, if you are looking through your hair in the reflection, you are not paranoid. Magic will keep you young, when she is nothing but wrinkled skin, you will still be youthful. How, is the question.

* * *

You are at Hogwarts when you receive the letter.

**Thomas, **

**Morgana just passed away two days ago. A freak accident when she was skipping out on the street. I told her not to. There's a funeral. It'll be next Friday.**

**-Ms. Wool 19 January 1940**

There is a strange burn in your heart (it's too soon, that's too soon. How? So easily, so fast, is it fear that grips your heart?)

The next day you receive another letter.

**Dear Tom,**

**I'll see you soon. **

**Sincerely, Ginny. 15 January 1940**

You do not attend the funeral.

* * *

"_You're going to die one day, Thomas."_ (no, you will not allow it, will do everything to prevent it, death is not acceptable, you cannot, will not, _can't_)

Death is ugly, and you hate it. The first time you split your soul, you put it in the blank diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle. Except, now you're stuck, and was this the right? You are stuck in a diary, and you are also planning to split your soul more, and your head hurts. A hand -yourhand- picks up the diary, appraises it, and tucks you into their -your- pocket.

You will never die, and that's what counts when you start to doubt (is this right? You don't feel right, it doesn't feel right, and the pages stir restlessly.)

* * *

It is years later when you see Ginny again (soon is not a word you would use). You remember her appalling hair, her brown wide eyes, except this Ginny is not your Ginerva. She is innocent, and fresh, and so not-Ginerva.

_Dear Diary,_

And you interrupt. _My name is Tom._

She gasps, drops the diary. (the diary she gave you, the brute. You don't understand, except you do, you can _feel _again, and Ginny starts to write again, hesitantly).

_Hello Tom. Where are you? _

_Inside the diary. This is mine you know. _

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she says out loud, and you have no ink to answer with.

_Sorry, I didn't know. _

_It's no issue. _

She starts to trust, and soon, you will make her suffer. Pain will make her pretty.

_Girls who lose weight usually attract attention, _you suggest.

_But, how will I? I don't have time to lose weight._

_..._

_I know a girl who used to starve herself. _

…

With Ginny's body at your feet, you feel successful. And then there's ink and blood, and nonono you are dead and gone, just a fragment and you hope your other self is faring better.

_She smiles, sharp and dangerous, and so very angry. _

"_You're going to die one day, Thomas." _

Somehow, you doubt it.

* * *

"_I know a girl who used to starve herself. _

_She died."_

* * *

**_A/N:_** title and opening line from the song, Who Are You Really, by Mikky Ekko which is what I was listening to while writing this. i put this as horror, because that's how i see it, so. thanks for reading. hope you enjoyed. reviews would be adored :).


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